


Tests

by Roadstergal



Category: Better Call Saul (TV), Breaking Bad
Genre: Companions, Drinking, Father-Son Relationship, Frottage, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Loss, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Mexico, New Mexico, Older Man/Younger Man, Other, Possibly Pre-Slash, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tests Jesse has to pass, and Mike as well.  Includes gapfillers for the Breaking Bad episodes "Shotgun" and "Crawl Space."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gangster business was, for the most part, boring.  Like cop business.  Nobody appreciated that.  They all watched TV, like this kid, thinking it was guns and excitement. Not long stretches of driving, of watching, of drop-offs and stakeouts.  Meticulous work.  Meticulous enough that the cops got bored before you did.  It was the lesson Mike taught Matty - _The smart ones - they're trying to out-bore you. Don't let them_.  
  
And now Mike was a babysitter, trying to teach the same lesson to this _kid_.  _Why?_ Mike had asked Gus - a man he rarely questioned.  _Why am I taking care of this kid?_ Young, dumb, full of come.  
  
_Because I know you can, Mike._ His little smile, a gentle but purposeful hand on Mike's shoulder.  
  
Because he thought this kid was Matty.  Well, even Gus was wrong, sometimes.  Just because he had lost someone, too - that didn't mean this kid was any sort of _replacement_.  Not a smart, serious boy like Matt.  Goofy, frivolous, in a way Matty never let himself be. He always wanted to be serious, like dad.  
  
"Hey, pull over." Jesse yawned and stretched.  "I gotta piss."  
  
So Mike pulled over and Jesse got out to piss by the side of the road, alone, not Matty and Mike camping, pissing together against a tree.  
  
"Do you ever fuckin' talk?"  
  
Mike grunted.  Words were precious.  Too precious to waste when they weren't deserved.  
  
"So what's the deal with you and Gus, anyway?" Jesse squirmed in the seat.  "You all homo together?"  
  
An amateurish attempt to get a rise out of Mike. "No." No, Mike didn't do _homo_ things with Gus. He loved and respected the man, and that was plenty.  Not something to waste for drunken fumbling in a squad car that made _her_ pack up and leave that same night when Mike told her.  _Why did mom leave?_ And Mike told Matty it was because she wanted more. That was a lie - she wanted less - but it wasn't the first lie he told Matty.  Or the last. No, the last lie he told his son was still bright in his mind. _Just do it.  Take care of your family.  It will all be okay._  
  
No. This kid wasn't Matty.  Mike was here to test him - he would fail, and Mike would clean up him and White.  It was past time to clean up White.  
  
Only Jesse passed.  
  
And now what was Mike to do?


	2. Crawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gapfiller for Crawl Space

"It's a Luer lock."

Jesse paused, frowning at the bag of blood, then at the man in the bed, irritated that there was yet another thing he didn't understand. "What? Yo, whatinhell are you talking about?"

"Luer lock." Mike's voice was hoarse, frighteningly quiet, and his pale eyes were distant. "You know what that is, kid?"

"Oh! Yeah. Yeah." The connection was made in Jesse's brain - Mr White had shown him how those worked, after all. Jessie found the connector, then switched it from the old bag to the new one. The residual blood started to drip out of the old bag, and Jessie grabbed it with a yelp, blood coating his hands as he hot-potatoed the bag into a nearby biohazard bin. He pulled a face as he wiped his hands on a set of scrubs that were sitting at the top of the bin.

Mike wheezed a pained little sound from the bed. "Stop it, kid. It hurts to laugh."

Jessie jumped on a rolling stool and wheeled himself over next to the bedside. "You sure you should be talking? You don't look so good." Jessie peeled back the blanket enough to expose the bandage taped over the sparse white hair on Mike's chest.

"Stop undressing me," Mike grated. Jessie hastily pulled the blanket back up. "The docs obviously think I'm fine. How's Gus?"

Jessie looked over his shoulder, jerking his thumb in the same direction. "Yeah, I mean, I think so, he should, it's all quiet over there now. I mean, you looked worse than he did, honest to fuckin' god, not that you don't look okay now, but you looked like ass back then, seriously, total shit..." Jessie found he was running out of words, which was the sure sign he should stop talking.

"Good." Mike closed his eyes and breathed a slow, careful breath. "You did good, kid. I mean it."

"Thanks." Jesse shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, yo, you took care of me that time when we got shot at, and I remembered what you said... I didn't even think, man, I just - things were happening, and I wish I had been faster..." Jessie couldn't help it; his nervous hands reached over and pulled the blanket back again to look at the wound on Mike's chest. He wanted to see it again; it was so surprising to think that the man was flesh and blood under it all. He seemed to be, to Jessie... well, something else, he wasn't sure. Coffee and leather and sinew and something that smelled very soothing.

"Stop touching me like that, kid." Mike's pale eyes slowly opened.

"Just looking," Jessie muttered. "I wanna make sure it's not getting... infested or infected or whatever."

"Kid." Mike pulled a careful breath. "Lemme tell you a story. I was a cop once." Jessie frowned, his body instinctively pulling away slightly. "Yeah, that's why I'm the asshole I am. Maybe, when I was a cop, I had an affair with my partner. My _guy_ partner." Mike paused as Jessie's brain slowly melted down. "So yeah. You might want to keep your hands off of me. And if you tell anyone - _anyone_ , whether you're straight or high or what - I'll kill ya. Got it?"

"Uh. Yeah. I won't tell anyone, I promise..." Jessie's head was spinning. "I mean, I don't know no homos, not personally, not before you, but you don't act like a homo, and I... I like you, I do, I mean not like that, but I..."

"Kid," Mike ground. "Shaddup."

Jessie did. And he found himself staring at Mike's gently breathing form for many hours.


	3. Bed

"Yo, check it..." Jesse waved at his bed. "I got the memory foam mattress. Pete turned me on to it - it's like, all NASA and shit, what they use on the Space Shuttle..." Jesse jammed his hands in his pockets. He liked to show off the cool stuff he had put together, but he belatedly realized that showing off his bed to a man, a man who had confessed he had done homo shit with another man - that might come across a bit strange. But Mike wasn't paying attention, as near as Jesse could tell - he was poking at the walls of Jesse's bedroom. "What you doing?"

"Looking for bugs," Mike replied, running his fingers gently behind the chest of drawers, looking off into the distance.

"Bugs? Who the fuck wants to bug me?"

Mike straightened and looked over at Jesse. "I dunno, do I, or I'd be looking a little more purposefully. The DEA? The cartel? You're a popular kid, you know."

Jesse sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets. "I don't wanna be."

"Well, you are. Looks like you're good here, at least." He left the bedroom, walking down the stairs to the front room. Jesse followed in his wake. "And you finally cleaned up."

"Yeah, uh." Jesse sat heavily on his couch. "I just wanted to have a party. Can't I have a fuckin' party?" Mike just stood there and looked at Jesse, sternly, in that way he had, making Jesse shift and sigh under his gaze, until he finally gave in. "Look, yo, after I shot Gale... I didn't wanna do it, okay? And I just couldn't.. I didn't... I didn't wanna be alone..."

"Gus only wanted Walt," Mike noted. "We would have left you alive. You would have stayed working with me. Gale was a good guy. Never hurt anyone."

"Yeah, well." Jesse looked down, picking at his fingers. "It's done."

"You did it for Walt." Mike sat down on the chair across from Jesse, his pale blue eyes staring straight at him. "That piece of shit. You did something you shouldn'tve done, just for him."

"Yeah, well, I care about him, okay, bitch?" Jesse looked up, and immediately regretted it, looking down at his fingers again. "He's been... he's taken care of me, he taught me, he's got a family!"

"Lots of people got a family." Mike's gaze did not let up. "He doesn't deserve your devotion."

"It ain't _devotion_ , nothing gay like that, I'm just... I'm just trying to do the right thing..."

"And you have no idea what it is."

"No. So fucking what. So I... so I don't fucking know, does that make me any different from anyone else?"

Mike leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "What makes you different is that you _do_ care. You try to do the right thing. That matters - most people don't."

"And the right thing is?"

"Family. Kids. Takin' care of who's yours."

Jesse rubbed his nose. "But I got this job, see? I can't have family that knows. I can't have them involved. They could get hurt."

"They could get hurt if you're around them or not. Being closer means you can protect them better."

Jesse laughed, a nasty little snort. "Not me, yo. I can't protect from shit. And Walt told me you can never keep that sort of lyin' up..."

"Walt." Mike snorted, leaning back in the chair.  "Walt.  Always fuckin' Walt.  Look - I told my daughter-in-law, I'm in some shady stuff, and it can't be helped.  I'll protect you, and you can decide if you want to know.  She doesn't want to know, so she doesn't.  That's the way it goes.  You love this girl, you love the kid - stay with them, be with them.  Protect them. Be a fuckin' _man_."

"And fuck other men." It slipped out.  It was stupid and pointless and it slipped out anyway.  Jesse gnawed on his hand while Mike sat there and stared at him, quietly.

"I'm gonna have a drink," he said, finally, standing up and walking over to the messy collection of bottles on the side table.

"Get me one, too?"


	4. Chapter 4

Jesse drank gleefully, voraciously, as if he had something to prove, taking generous sips of the horrible concoction he had mixed for himself, slamming the glass down onto the table between swigs.  He knew moderation in this no more than moderation in any other part of his life, and it was intriguing to watch.  Mike did indeed watch, properly intrigued, savoring his own drink – swirling the amber liquid gently to listen to the gentle clink of the ice against the glass, taking a mouthful, letting the complex tones of the whiskey delight his taste buds before swallowing, letting the liquid burn its way smoothly to his stomach, warming his body so gently.

“So who made _you_ badass?” Jesse asked, pouring himself another toxic mixture of Red Bull and flavored vodka.

“What are you talking about?” Mike grumbled, holding out his own glass.  Jesse took it and poured whiskey into it almost to the brim.  His hands were a little sloppy, some sloshed liquid spilling out on the floor.  While Jesse was fully capable of spilling things while sober, of course, Mike read his movements, his belligerence, the flow of his speech.  He was quite decently drunk.  At least he was at home, and unlikely to cause much trouble from it.

“Don’t play stupid, you know what I fuckin’ mean.  I mean, most guys your age, they sit around and watch fuckin’ Jeopardy and have dinner at four in the fuckin’ afternoon, yeah?  And most guys as badass as you don’t live that long.  So how did it work out for you?”  Jesse plopped on the armchair across from the couch.

Mike shrugged.  The correct answer was very simple, very easy.  _None of your fuckin’ business, kid._   “Why do you care?”

“Cause…” Jesse shrugged, his hands playing nervously with his glass, his eyes darting upwards, back to Mike’s face, then downwards again.  “Cause you’ve got a kid and a grandkid and sorta got it together, you know?  I’m a fuckin’ loser, I know that, but all this business with you, with Walt – it makes me feel like maybe I don’t have to be a loser, that I can be a good guy, that I can have some sorta family, too…”

It was quite ridiculous, such a sappy sentiment, such a Norman Rockwell tableaux to come from the mouth of a tattoed, foul-mouthed meth dealer.  But god help him, Mike _understood_.  And damned if this kid wasn’t a better person than many of those with regular jobs, badges and pensions and two and a half kids at home. “You can be that if you want, kid.  You’re in a bad business, you need to be careful – for you, for everyone you care about.  In this business, even your friends will shoot you in the back – or in the face.  But it’s possible.  It’s not easy.  Just possible.”

“You take care of me.  It helps.”  Again, Jesse’s eyes would not stay still.  His natural restlessness was in full force – his eyes moving up, over, down, briefly on Mike’s face, back down again.  Pretty eyes.  _No, kill that thought_.

“So what if I do?” Everything was happening very slowly.  Like an accident, like that moment when metal starts to buckle and glass to shatter, when Mike could swear he could see each shard fragment and begin to fly, painfully slowly.  Like when a crook or a cop was reaching for his gun, the movement of fingers and hands the totality of Mike’s focus, giving him an eternity to plan, to react, before the weapon emerged and was aimed.  So Mike could hardly claim he had no warning, no time, no agency, as Jesse came to his feet, moved towards Mike – a strange little dance of closer, to the side, closer, an awkward movement of an uncertain boy, unable to look Mike in the eyes.

Mike waited.  He didn’t move, he didn’t give any indication of approval or disapproval. This wasn’t his decision, no.  If he were a better man, it would be his decision – he would tell Jesse that the boy was drunk, send him to bed, take charge.  He wasn’t a better man.  He was a man who would let Jesse do this if he could bring himself to – yes, bring himself to sit awkwardly in Mike’s lap, to brush his lips over Mike’s.  Once he had done that, once he had committed, Mike let himself put his hands on the boy’s skinny body.  Gently, carefully, running his hands up that smooth back, and Jesse was emboldened to kiss more deeply.

He was a very poor kisser, Mike noted, anxious and sharp and stabby with his tongue, each short, huffed breath reeking of alcohol.  Nervousness was surely part of it, so Mike stroked Jesse’s back firmly, slowing the pace of the kisses, wrapping his hands around Jesse’s waist to hold the boy steady.  Jesse responded to that, relaxing a fraction, moaning and putting his hands on Mike’s shoulders, opening his mouth and letting himself be kissed.

It was the proper reminder of just how young Jesse was that after only a few minutes of this kissing and rubbing, he moaned and yelled, strangled little swear words, and Mike could feel how damp the crotch of his jeans suddenly became.  It was an awakening, of sorts, and the rest of Mike’s conscience emerged.  “Bedtime, kid.”

Jesse made sleepy little protests, but between the alcohol and the orgasm, had not much energy to do more than grumble as Mike lifted his light body and carried him up the stairs to his ridiculous foam bed.  (Really, Mike should try it – his back wasn’t the best, these days.)

It was yet another reminder of Jesse’s youth that he was already hard again as Mike pulled off his clothing, but he was snoring gently once the jeans were in the pile of dirty clothes in the corner.  The boy needed a hamper… but yes, he was a boy, not an adult.  He had time enough to come for wives and children and hampers and not dry humping men old enough to be his father and then some.

Mike pulled the blanket up over Jesse’s sleeping body, and made his way downstairs.  He was… well, it was an indulgence, but what was one more after an evening of them?  He stepped into the downstairs bathroom, pulled his trousers down, and with the taste of a drunk young man still in his mouth, jerked off quickly into the sink, washing his hands and running the semen down the drain once he was done.

It would be a good idea to go home. However, it would be a less good idea for a man who was already on the sketchy side of the law to drive with a few whiskeys inside of him, and the orgasm had drained him more than they normally did.  To the point where he counted himself lucky to make it to the sofa before collapsing on it and falling into a deep, hard sleep.


End file.
